


The First and Last of Your Kind

by requitedskittles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Friends to Lovers, Knotting, M/M, Omega Scott McCall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3077048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/requitedskittles/pseuds/requitedskittles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his latest heat Scott wants someone who’s as similar to Stiles as possible, but who isn't him, because he's convinced Stiles doesn’t want him like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First and Last of Your Kind

It’s rare. Everyone always tells him that, when they scent him for the first time. When they realize it’s not a trick of the light that his eyes glow red. It’s almost unheard of. It’s not normal. It’s _wrong_. 

An Alpha werewolf who isn’t an _Alpha_? That’s twisted. Some kind of procedure needs to occur there, magical or medical. How does he handle it? Don’t his instincts conflict and confuse?

Scott doesn’t care. So he isn’t the same as everyone else, why should that concern anyone? He doesn’t feel shame over it, no matter how many raised eyebrows and whispers suggest he should. He likes being an Omega, likes how heat makes me feel, how he loses temporary control, how his body readies itself. Likes the feeling of slick dripping down his thighs, the looseness of his muscles, the thrum of his blood. Sometimes it’s inconvenient, and sometimes he considers taking hormone supplements, but more often he thinks about getting a heat partner.

He needs someone who’s just as unaffected by his status as he is. Someone who won’t have preconceived expectations beyond wanting to spend heat with him. Someone who’s as similar to Stiles as possible, without being Stiles, because he doesn’t want Scott like that. He’s never shown any indication he’d be interested. Not even when their parents started murmuring about their compatibility. 

Scott has hoped, waiting for a sign. He’s tried to sense it, but every reading he ever gets from Stiles is multi-layered and confusing. He tucks his dreams into a pocket of his mind and only brings them out late at night, when he’s alone and can be left to look at them without feeling a pervading sense of inadequacy. 

His heat is another week to go and this time Scott wants to spend his three days writhing against another warm body rather than his collection of sex toys. The problem is, he isn’t sure some random someone would be good enough anymore – not when Stiles brushes up against him after they’ve been sitting watching a movie, or when they touch fingers while sharing a bowl of popcorn, or when they so much as share a room. He tries really hard not to have these seem significant or send his body for a loop, but Scott’s efforts don’t always result in success.

He researches potential heat partners anyway, downloading the heatmeet app and connecting with a few nearby Alphas, looking through the books at the clinic his mom works at to see if there’s anyone he could be helping out – an Alpha about to go into rut who recently lost their mate. 

He’s drawn up a shortlist with pros and cons when Stiles settles next to him at the kitchen counter. Stiles has let himself into his house, as usual, and is occupying the niche he’s already carved into Scott’s life – to the point space feels empty without him in it. Stiles takes his tablet, pouts down at the screen, hands it back.

“The Baby Jesus buttplug not doing it for you anymore,” he asks idly, snatching Scott’s soda. 

“Dude, not even my Dick Duck is hitting the spot,” Scott replies, because he learned his lesson long ago when it comes to Stiles and propriety. There’s no correlation between them and pretending you’re horrified by that is a slippery slope too steep to contemplate. “And I wore my drilldo out.”

Stiles snorts, reaching for an apple. He focuses on etching a circle into the skin with his fingernail. “But seriously, I thought you were happier by yourself?”

“I was, but, I don’t know. I want a change. I wanna share it with someone for once, see what I’m capable of.”

“Aren’t you, like, self-conscious and shy?”

“Yeah, but when I’m in heat I don’t usually mind. You saw me the first time. You remember how little I cared? How could you forget all the groping?”

This is how Scott knows Stiles isn’t interested. The first time his heat struck, age 16 in the boys’ locker room. He immediately dropped to his knees and didn’t want to let Stiles go, held onto his leg like supplication, begging to be taken. First time hormones lead to all kinds of displays that get played on America’s Funniest Home Videos and knowyourmeme all the time, so he’s not the only one with an embarrassing initial heat story. He still has nightmares about the wideness of Stiles’ eyes, his frantic yelling for Coach Finstock. They joke about it, sometimes. 

Stiles stares at him, mouth full of apple. “You’re like that every time?”

“Pretty much.”

Stiles draws the tablet close again and Scott watches him as he reads through the information. “You have ‘pro – brown hair’ here. They’re not really exacting standards, are they?”

“The list was longer, but these guys already meet the baseline wishes.”

“Which are?”

Scott knocks into Stiles’ shoulder. “Why do you wanna know?”

“I can’t care about my best buddy?”

“Sure you can, but you haven’t before,” Scott says, sipping his soda now that he’s wrestled it back from Stiles’ grasping fingers. 

“Lies and slander. I always care about you. I just figured you’re into that whole overrated discretion thing,” Stiles says, shrugging. He licks at his lower lip, frowns to himself like he’s making a decision, and then glances up at Scott. “I could be your heatmate, if you want? I go into rut about the same time, and I meet most of this criteria listed here, if not on your super secret chart. And you wouldn’t have to worry about getting to know someone new.”

Scott spit-takes, rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand. His chest feels unbearably tight and he sounds hoarse when he finally gathers words together. “You, uh, you’re interested in that? That’s something you want to do?”

Stiles nods vigorously, then holds his hands out like he’s in a dance revue and needs to add some sparklemotion. “Yeah, I mean, it could be fun.”

It isn’t unheard of for friends to share heat or rut and remain only as friends afterwards. He’s done it before. Maybe not to the point of knotting, but this wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a heat partner he isn’t _with_. Just the first time in six years. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll bond and decide to spend their lives as mates. Regardless of wishful thinking, it isn’t like Stiles has declared his undying love. And considering how unconventional Scott already is, it’s a fair assumption that Stiles will think he is in this as well. But Scott can’t help but imagine it leading to something more romantic, more long-term. He thinks about waking up beside Stiles and holding his hand as they pick up groceries, and all kinds of domestic chores they already mostly do together anyway, but this time it’d be for keeps. 

“We should do it,” Scott says. He grabs the apple from Stiles’ hand, takes a huge bite that he swallows with little effort. “We should fuck.”

Stiles laughs, knocks into him again. “I totally thought you’d be euphemistic. ‘We should lie together’, ‘we should tenderly connect’, ‘we two should become one’.” 

“You underestimate me,” Scott warns him, gently.

“I think I kinda do,” Stiles admits.

Scott spends the rest of the week freaking out. He doesn’t know where Stiles’ sudden change of heart comes from. He doesn’t want to build it up to be something bigger than it is. Stiles was casual about it, so he should be too, and really, sex isn’t some huge magical thing that needs all his terror and concentration. It’s basically a glorified hokey pokey and he learned that dance a long time ago. 

Still, he frets. He fidgets. He finds himself thinking about it constantly. He buys new bed clothes, an implausibly large container of lube – because yeah, his natural slick is amazing, but he’s always been the cautious type – and as many nutritious snacks as his pantry can hold. On the surface, he’s ready. Deep down, not even really that deep, he doesn’t know if there’s such thing. 

When Kira and Allison ask him what’s wrong when they go to grab coffee together, he doesn’t tell the truth, because he knows they’ll ask if he’s sure this is a good idea. Kira helped him through his third heat, Allison the eleventh, and apparently he was vocal in wanting Stiles to be there. To the point they’re both convinced he’s in love with him. 

Maybe he is.

Thankfully or worryingly, Stiles is also a ball of nervous energy throughout the week. He asks the kinds of invasive questions he’s always asked, but this time he obviously expects answers. He surveys Scott’s purchases with a critical eye, adds a few more sugary snacks, but compliments Scott’s choice of sheet sets. Scott catches him staring at him and blushing all over after they share dinner on Thursday night and Scott licks up the remnants of some bolognese sauce. 

“Do you get demanding?” Stiles asks over skype as Scott sets about completing his laundry, folding his scrubs. 

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Yeah, but I mean…” Stiles begins, then does some complicated expression with his whole face and a growling sound. “Do you snap, Scott? Do you snarl?”

He’s endearingly ludicrous all the time. Scott doesn’t always know how to handle it.

Scott puts his scrubs in a pile, pointedly raises an eyebrow at Stiles. “What, like, grrr, arrrgh, vibrate harder or I’ll snap you in two?”

“Did you ever come close to biting Kira? Or Allison?”

“Not that I recall. Did you ask them?”

“Yeah, but they were surprisingly tight-lipped, up until I asked about their sex life and then I was told about all kinds of maneuvers I never even knew existed.”

“I have more control than that, Stiles. I won’t accidentally turn you. Maybe I get more wolf-like? I honestly haven’t tested it out.”

“Okay, so, tomorrow? High protein breakfast filled with bacon and eggs and then higher protein lunch filled with my come?”

Scott wrinkles his nose. “You’re disgusting.”

Stiles gives him a rare, blinding grin. “You love it.” 

They say their goodbyes and Scott does everything in his power to distract himself. He can already feel the beginnings of heat start to affect his body; his bones feel itchy, he keeps coming out in goose pimples or alternately sweating while doing absolutely nothing. Usually he loves it when this starts to happen, anticipates three days of a relaxing time trying to beat his record of six orgasms in an hour. But he’s tenser than normal, concerned. It’s hard to fall asleep, even though he’s exhausted. 

He wakes up in a pool of his own slick. That’s – earlier than he was expecting. He can already hear Stiles downstairs, trying to quietly fry up what smells like eggs and hash browns. It’s loud to him, just as the smells are stronger in the air. His senses have heightened. Scott rolls out of bed, gets the new plastic protector in place, changes to his thickest sheets, attempts to slow down his breathing. 

He walks into the kitchen and holds back a contented hum as he watches Stiles at his stove, wearing a form-fitting, thin t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He still has bedhead, hasn’t used any product, and he smells pure – like all he used was soap this morning, and was careful to get rid of as much of that as possible. Scott remembers how Stiles was the one who explained his strong aversions to certain scents during his heat years ago, how deodorants and anti-perspirants are the bane of werewolves’ existences because of their specific chemical compositions. It’s considerate, that he’s already thoroughly showered, that he’s prepared himself for Scott. 

Scott gives him a friendly back rub, hooks his head over his shoulder and looks into the pan. It isn’t a new kind of touch for them in any way, but it makes his nerves spike and his hackles raise. 

“Smells good,” he says, letting Stiles choose whether he’s talking about the food or him. 

“It’s almost done, wolf-boy,” Stiles says back with a smile in his voice. He glances over his shoulder, red splotches of colour below his cheekbones. His rut has already started too. 

Scott sets the table and occupies himself with tranferring bottled water and snacks to his bedroom while he waits for Stiles to plate up the food. While they’re eating, they chat about a case Stiles has been consulting on and the fifth instance of interesting object insertion that Scott has had to deal with during the month. 

“A pumpkin, though,” Scott says with a shake of his head. “Not even a butternut squash or a gourd. But the kind you use for a jack o’lantern. That’s messed up.”

“Maybe they wanted something a little halloweenie?” Stiles says with a faux-innocent stare. Scott throws some bacon at him which he catches in his mouth. Scott stares at his mouth for a little too long. 

After they wash up and rest their stomachs playing Mortal Kombat Apokalypse, Scott thinks about how comfortable this feels. He isn’t stressed out or worried. Stiles has always been a grounding, anchoring influence on him, and it’s enjoyable spending this time, hanging out. Stiles touches him a little more than usual, slides his hand up his thigh and squeezes, leans his weight and rests his head on his shoulder, but it feels right, feels good. Stiles seems to anticipate exactly what he needs. He even realizes when Scott can’t wait any longer. 

He holds Scott’s hand, leads him up the staircase. Scott can manage on his own, but he appreciates it anyway. It probably speaks to deep instincts within him, an ingrained desire to be cared for.

Stiles starts to help him strip out of his clothes. 

“You’ve soaked through your shorts,” he says, then bites on his lower lip. “Fuck, why didn’t you tell me you were so far along? You must have been desperate.”

“Not yet,” Scott replies. “Almost,” he admits a second later, as one glance from Stiles has his whole body singing with the need to be touched.

Stiles flings off his own shirt, goes to cradle Scott’s head. He’s leaning in and Scott’s thinking _finally_ when Stiles suddenly stops. “Wait, I never asked if you wanted this to involve kissing.”

“Kissing’s my favorite,” Scott says, bridging the gap between them and sucking in Stiles’ lower lip. He wraps his hands around Stiles’ back and arches into him, rubs their thighs together and moans. 

He loves kissing Stiles, he discovers, loves how well their lips move together, how Stiles takes over with his tongue. He loves how Stiles holds onto him, how he has to tilt Scott’s head up a fraction, because their proportions are just that little bit different. Scott loses himself in the push and pull of it, until sucking in a breath he realizes they’ve landed on the bed and Stiles is bracketing him with his arms. 

He’s beautiful like this; sturdy and lean at the same time, freckles and sunspots in a display Scott could join together in kisses.

“This okay?” Stiles asks, looking down at Scott like he’s been gift-wrapped specially for him.

“This is more than okay,” Scott says. “If it’s not, I’ll tell you, all right? Most of the time I have presence of mind.”

Stiles looks concerned. “Most of the time?” 

“I trust you,” Scott assures him. 

“I’ll be careful,” Stiles says. “I’ll keep checking.”

“I don’t know what this says about me, but I’m getting even wetter, fuck. Think we could move things along?”

Stiles presses another kiss against his lips then helps him shimmy out of his shorts. Scott’s not overly self-conscious about his body; he works out, he has supernatural stamina, he knows he’s good-looking – but the way Stiles gives him the once-over has him squirming. Stiles’ eyes go perceptibly darker, his gaze turning hungry. He drags his fingers over Scott’s abdomen softly, only to do it again when Scott’s muscles contract at the touch. He holds onto Scott at his hips and pulls him closer. Scott’s legs spread and go up of their own volition. 

His cock gets harder as Stiles continues exploring with his fingers, testing his reactions. He starts to leak precome. He thinks about fucking his fist to take the edge off, but when his hand gets close, Stiles glances at him, disappointed.

“Let me give you your first,” Stiles says, propping a pillow under his lower back and taking hold of one of his legs. “I’ll work as quick as I can, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, closing his eyes, because he can’t look at the sheen of sweat on Stiles’ brow, or how red his lips look, without wanting to take himself in hand again. 

The first touch of Stiles’ lips against his thigh is sweet torture. The second isn’t as sweet. Scott’s pretty sure Stiles was lying about his intended speed, because he seems to be luxuriating in Scott’s responses to his movements and touches. When he finally licks a stripe against his hole, Scott’s already shuddering with the effort not to come. Stiles’ tongue is sinful. It applies the perfect amount of pressure, alternately goes deep and hard and gentle. Scott doesn’t know what to expect. Each time he thinks he has it figured out, Stiles licks concentric circles, or spears into him, or _sucks_ \- fuck, Scott can’t stop himself from arching up at that. 

“You taste incredible,” Stiles murmurs, one hand on his knee, the other helping hold Scott open. He blows a breath against Scott’s hole. “You’re already so loose, Scotty. So nearly ready for me.”

Scott wriggles in his grasp, fists at the sheets. He can feel his fangs poking out, the beginnings of claws. He surrenders himself to it for a while, enjoys his body’s sensations. Stiles groans against him as he licks him out and pushes in with two fingers, and Scott can’t do anything but punch his hips higher, try to coerce him into filling him up. 

“I want your cock now,” he says, authoritatively. He guesses he can get demanding. 

“I know you do,” Stiles says softly. “And you’ll get it, you will. I just. I need to make sure you’re completely there. I’m bigger than any of your toys.”

“How do you know?”

Stiles snorts against him and it’s the strangest sensation. It’d be embarrassing if that’s how he came, one derisive snort – but it’s possible. He bites at his inner cheek. 

“Like I haven’t rifled through your drawers,” Stiles mocks.

“And the box under the bed?”

“First place I looked, Scotty.”

Scott opens his eyes again, looks down and immediately regrets it. His throat chokes up as he gasps out, “When?”

Seeing Stiles’ head between his thighs is a revelation. He looks like he always belongs there, lips plump and red, chin smeared with Scott’s slick, hair falling across his forehead, cheeks sucked in and bright red as the tips of his ears. His eyes are all pupil and heavy-lidded. 

“It’s not important. What is important is that you’re prepared.” 

“If I promise I can take you, will you just give it to me?”

Stiles smiles at him mischievously. He fucks his fingers in deeper, curls them up. “How about I get you to come first?” 

Scott whines, but nods, clutching until he hears fabric rip. He doesn’t expect Stiles’ hot, wet lips at the head of his cock, or the way he crooks his fingers until he’s brushing against his prostate with every push in, but hardly any time passes at all before he’s rocking up, spurting into Stiles’ mouth. He sees white for a second. He didn’t know that was a real thing, but it feels long overdue. He knows he’s trembling, can feel his heartbeat skyrocketing. 

“Feeling better?” Stiles asks, voice hoarse.

“I still want you,” Scott says, because he _does_ , can feel himself unfurling for Stiles, is absolutely desperate to have him inside – not just his fingers, not only his tongue – but everything, anything. 

He rolls over and spreads his legs as wide as they can go, thighs aching with the strain of it. Arches his back until he’s presenting.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles whispers. Scott can hear his pulse thundering, can smell his arousal to the exclusion of everything else. It’s the only time he’s ever gotten a clear reading on what Stiles is feeling. “How do you want it? Gentle? Rough? I can’t make promises, but I want it to be good for you.”

“Anyway you want,” Scott says back. “It’s you. It’ll be good regardless.”

Stiles presses a kiss against his back, feels around his rim again, before pushing the blunt, wet tip of his cock into Scott’s hole. He edges in incrementally and Scott hums with each movement, as all his spaces and gaps get filled up. He’s so sensitive, he doesn’t care how cliché the thought is; Stiles’ cock lances into him like electricity. Stiles wasn’t wrong about his thickness or his length. He feels like nothing Scott’s ever had before, but it isn’t too much, it’s finally enough. 

The thrusts are slow at first, measured, and Scott can already feel Stiles’ knot hitting against him; not fully inflated, but hardening. He uses his elbows to shove back onto Stiles and he doesn’t know if it’s that or utter loss of control, but Stiles goes harder and deeper within seconds, fingers digging more into his sides as their skin slaps together. He imagines his knuckles turning white and wonders if there will be bruises he can prevent healing. They sound lewd, _messy_ , and Scott loves it, knows they’re covered in each other. 

He rolls his body and gusts out a breath, urging Stiles to piston into him, knot him up. He’s greedy for it. His slick is dripping down the insides and backs of his thighs and his hole feels loose, so he knows it won’t be a problem. 

“How are you?” Stiles asks, quiet. He’s been mouthing at Scott’s spine for the past minute, hips working deep but slow. 

“Aching,” Scott replies. 

Stiles makes a wounded sound, starts to ease back. Scott reaches behind and clutches onto whatever he can grab – his forearm, he thinks. He scratches him, but he’ll fix that later, bathe and dress it tenderly. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, pulling Stiles’s body to him again. “I’m aching for you, for your knot.”

“Fuck, sorry.” Stiles slides in again, circling his hips, grinding his knot against Scott’s rim. “That all right?”

“Yes, Stiles, yeah, come on, you feel so good.”

“So do you. This is everything I – it’s great, Scotty. Thank you.” 

“Knot me? Please?” Scott begs, voice high and tight. 

He feels Stiles’ fingers dragging through his sweaty hair, his lips against his back again. His knot’s nudging into him, oh so slowly, and Scott wants it, wants them to tie together. He wants the stretch of it, needs the connection. His claws are fully extended now, his fangs completely out. He’s sure his eyes are red behind his eyelids. Every sense he possesses is at its greatest power, but all focused on Stiles. He can hear every miniature skip of his heart, every shift in his scent, to the point he can almost taste the musk in the air.

He tells Stiles this and then keeps speaking. He’s not entirely sure what he’s saying, but it makes Stiles thrust harder, so he doesn’t mind. He thinks he says, “Come on,” four times, and “Fuck me like you mean it” at least once. 

When Stiles finally pushes forward enough that they’re locked together, Scott lets out a sob. It’s so much better than any of his toys. Stiles is thick, hard and warm and he’s still grinding in, so much so that Scott comes again, harder this time, come shooting up over his abs and torso. He clenches down harder on Stiles’ cock and Stiles makes breathy whimpers that Scott wants to record sometime. He can’t feel him coming, but his heart’s going so fast and his breath is hitching, so he knows he is anyway.

Scott flops down, scratching his nipples against the sheets because he likes the sensation. He already knows what he’ll request for the next session, can imagine Stiles’ perfect pink pout against him, sucking his nipples to hardened nubs. Maybe he can return the favor. Stiles is a heavy, comforting weight over his back, breathing gradually evening out. 

“You good?” Scott asks.

“God, yeah. You?”

“More than.”

“Good,” Stiles says, sounding sleepy. 

Scott huffs a laugh to himself, but surrenders himself to exhaustion too. 

He wakes to Stiles softly sliding his fingers against his rim, where his knot is still tying them together. He must only have dozed off for a half hour, if that. He writhes in place, blinking and craning to glance at Stiles over his shoulder. Stiles’ expression is unguardedly fond until he realizes Scott’s watching him, at which point he plasters on an obviously fake smirk and raise of his eyebrows. 

“The sleeping beast awakens, I see,” he jokes.

“That makes you the beauty in this situation?” Scott replies, ladening his tone with as much skepticism as he can muster. 

“Well, I’m not the teapot. Or the clock. Or the candle-holder thing.”

“You kinda remind me of Gaston.”

Stiles pretends to gasp. “Asshole.”

“But you like my asshole.”

“I do.” Stiles slides his hands soothingly over Scott’s sides. “I’m gonna pull out now. I’ll go slow.”

Scott instinctively tries to clench down as Stiles’ knot eases out, but watery come dribbles out from him anyway. He’s so glad he stocked up on new sheets and laundry detergent. He lifts up and flips onto his back when Stiles has completely pulled free. He props two of his pillows up under his shoulders. The wet spot is cold and gooey, but he always likes that during heat, so he pushes into it. He grimaces down at the rips in the sheets, though. These aren’t salvageable.

“Water?” he asks, reaching for a bottle.

Stiles settles next to him, sitting. He takes it, opens and chugs it with a cock-hardening moan.

“You should know that you being an Alpha on the streets makes you pretty much the perfect Omega between the sheets,” Stiles says. “For the record, just in case you don’t remember, you’re very demanding. It’s awesome.”

“I have a feeling you’re one of very few people who’d say that,” Scott sighs. He rests his own bottle against his forehead, enjoying the cool. 

Stiles starts to unpeel the label off the water bottle, gaze focused on his task. His tone is light when he asks, “Was it different enough with another person? Did I help scratch the itch?”

Scott takes a breath, is assaulted with the smell of them mingling together, thick and heady. It makes him feel bold. “I think it was more because it was with you, that it felt so incredible.” He takes a swig of water. “I mean, I’m not usually this sated. I can feel the drive, the urge, still, but for the moment I’m content. That’s never happened before.”

“Knots are wonderful things,” Stiles says, blithely. 

Scott wonders if he’s being knowingly obtuse, whether he shouldn’t push it. What few inhibitions he has are being suppressed by both his Alpha and Omega sides.

“Maybe. I like yours the best.”

Stiles looks at him for a long moment, lips parted and glistening. Scott wants to keep that gaze on him for as long as he can, wants to wake up to the fondness he saw earlier, wants to keep Stiles in a way he doesn’t have him. 

“I don’t have your superlative wolfy senses, so you’ve gotta tell me if I’m reading you wrong,” Stiles says. “It kind of seems like you’re suggesting I’m the only one you think could make you feel this way.”

“You don’t need to be a supernatural creature to see and hear what’s right in front of you, Stiles. I’ve wanted you for years.”

Stiles blushes, looks confused. “But you were always so adamant about taking care of your heats alone.”

“After you rejected me.”

“I haven’t rejected you. You can’t reject something that’s never been offered, Scott.”

Scott scowls down at his bottle, then does his best impression of Stiles. “Coach, Cooooooach, I think something’s wrong with Scott!” And then, quieter, but even more frantic. “Hey, buddy, help’s on the way!”

“You were sixteen,” Stiles says, poking a finger toward Scott’s chest. “And out of your mind. I didn’t even know you understood it was me you were pawing at. If I’d known I’d…” Stiles cuts himself off, shakes his head. 

“You’d what?”

“Be your heatmate always, if you wanted.”

Scott’s heart stops beating and he starts to crush his water bottle between his fingers. He has to take a moment to calm himself, to ensure he’s not taking this any way Stiles doesn’t intend it. Because it sounds like Stiles feels the same way about him that he feels about Stiles and that can’t be right – he’d know, wouldn’t he? He’d have discovered that years ago. He’d have untangled love out of Stiles’ myriad emotions and attributed it as belonging to him. 

“Out of platonic affection? Pity?”

“Yeah, I just had the most orgasmic experience of my life because I pity you and wanna pat you on the back because you’re my best bro. Seriously?” Stiles leans down, caresses his jaw. “Now you’re fishing. It doesn’t suit you.”

Stiles kisses him, soft and deep and giving. Scott trembles into it, has no ability to do anything else. He kisses back, but that’s it. He’s wanted this, exactly this, for so long. As soon as he was taught it was a thing that could exist. The idea it might actually be within his grasp is earth-shattering.

“I wanna hear the words, Stiles,” Scott admits after they pull apart, when his arousal has started to spike again, his joints weaken. “I don’t think I’ll believe it until I do.”

“I love you a lot,” Stiles says, resting his forehead against Scott’s, thumbing at his cheek. “I’ve always either been convinced that you already know, or scared that you’d find out. I never thought you could love me too. You do love me, don’t you?”

“I love you,” Scott confirms. He grins, nuzzles against Stiles, looking deeply into his eyes. “And I love having your knot inside me, hard cock splitting me open. You wanna go back to that? That was fun.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says with a laugh. He straddles Scott’s thighs, starts another claiming kiss. “Face to face?,” he asks when Scott bucks up against him. 

“Anyway you want,” Scott says. 

“You say that, but I wanna know what you want.”

Scott initiates the next kiss, fast and fierce. He pulls off with a smack. “Face to face.”


End file.
